Mycroft actually met Gregory Lestrade face-to-face for the first time at Sherlock's funeral. It was strange, to say the least - they'd been in text (and occasional phone) contact for nearly fourteen years, but it never went beyond that. Mycroft was pleased to see that the Detective Inspector looked even better in person than he did on the Yard's video footage.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade managed a wavery smile. "No need to introduce yourself, Mr. Holmes - I'd recognize that voice anywhere. Terrible business, what?"

Mycroft inclined his head. "Sherlock was . . . always dramatic." Still is, the prat. "I think he'd have been pleased to see his funeral getting so much media attention."

"Bloody right." Lestrade snorted. "He was-" He blinked several times and took a shaky breath. "He was a good man, though, in the end. And I'll never believe those stupid rumors about him being a fraud. I've seen what he can do. Don't suppose you can do something about those?"

"I'm working on it." Mycroft could read the telltale strain around Lestrade's occipitofrontalis muscle, drawing his forehead into more wrinkles than he usually possessed, and the tension in his jawline. Guilt, then, hidden among the grief, but trying to put on a good front. He knew his own face was blank, as always, but he allowed a tiny bit of his very real concern for Sherlock to show through. Lestrade seemed to find comfort in the shared emotion.

"Your parents here?" Lestrade asked. "He never talked about them, but I assumed . . ."

"Unfortunately, no. They were both unable to make it." Unwilling to put on the show required of them.

"God, I'm sorry. That's . . . I'm so sorry, Mycroft. I had no idea things were that distant."

Mycroft didn't miss Lestrade's (Gregory's?) use of his name. It sounded . . . good. He was "Mr. Holmes" to bloody near everybody, and he found himself rather hoping that Lestrade would become one of the few to be excluded from that number.

But when would that happen, now that they didn't have Sherlock there between them? Sherlock had always been the reason for contact, late-night pleas to keep him out of trouble or warnings when he was in danger of slipping back into his old habits. And twice, frantic phone calls when Mycroft became aware that Sherlock was in imminent danger of overdosing. Both times, Lestrade had stepped up admirably, browbeating some sense into the detective and bullying him into giving up the cocaine, at least temporarily. John had rather taken over the watchdog role of late, but Lestrade seemed perfectly willing to stand at the sidelines, ready to intervene if needed.

"It occurs to me I never did thank you properly," Mycroft said, deftly sidestepping the subject of his parents' absence. "For your actions all those years ago. Sherlock was out of control, hated me, actually. He was determined to not listen to a word I had to say, whether or not I was right." He had to work to swallow around the lump in his throat. "You saved him, and I owe you everything for that. At the very least, my sincere thanks."

Lestrade looked down, a faint wash of color tinging his cheeks. Interesting. "It was the least I could do," he said quietly. "Your brother was bloody brilliant, and it was all such a waste - I just couldn't - just couldn't-" He clenched his fist over his mouth, stifling what would have probably been an audible sob, then looked Mycroft square in the face. "I'm honored to have known him, and that's a fact. Even with - all this - he's made me a better man. Older and a bit grayer, maybe, but better."

Mycroft suppressed his first thought - that Lestrade looked perfectly delicious, gray hair or no - as completely inappropriate for a funeral. Which was why he was caught off-guard when Lestrade's next sentence was, "Come have a drink with me."

He blinked. "Pardon?"

Lestrade smiled a bit. "I know, you probably don't drink, weight of Britain on your shoulders and all. Coffee, then. I just - nobody knew Sherlock better than you, other than maybe John, and I don't want to intrude on him right now. I think - I think it would be good to set some time aside to remember him together, no?"

"Let him be the center of attention one more time?" Mycroft murmured.

And Lestrade broke into a true grin. "Just so. Tomorrow? Or - hell, your schedule is more full than mine, I'm sure. They're calling it 'administrative leave' while they review all of Sherlock's cases, but I know when I'm being shown the door. I can duck out for a cuppa whenever you're free."

Mycroft inclined his head. "Tomorrow morning would be . . . lovely. Ten?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah. Ten. Good." His attention drifted to the other mourners, specifically to the small knot surrounding John and Mrs. Hudson. "I should - I should say something to John, at least. But I'll see you tomorrow."

Mycroft was left standing alone at his brother's funeral with an outwardly-inscrutable expression on his face, wondering if he had just made a terrible mistake. Going out with Gregory Lestrade - even just coffee - would be . . .

Heavenly.

Shit.